


Thunder

by becominghistoric



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I'm sorry R, Mention of blood, Unrequited Love, as usual, but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becominghistoric/pseuds/becominghistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire didn't wake up in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in years, and when I start again it's angst and death... Well, the only way is up. (Also, it's short, so at least the pain won't last for too long. Yay.)

Grantaire had been dreaming about thunder. He could hear voices calling, but the clouds were gathering and he couldn’t see through the darkness. The thunder rolled ever closer and the voices came with it. If only he could see them, he might understand why they were shouting. An ever pervading sense of dread churned throughout him, but he couldn’t remember why. If only he could see them, if only he could-

  
This thunder clap was so loud that it burst through his head and reverberated around his entire body. Except it wasn’t thunder. He understood now. Understood the fear behind the shouts.

  
He was obscured by the billiard table, so remained unnoticed as the soldiers left. Grantaire stayed in his corner for some time, unable to will himself to move. The act of moving, making himself stand up and cross the room towards the limp figure, pinned so grotesquely against the wall, would force him to accept this as reality.

  
Hot waves of nausea periodically came and went. The sound of the gunfire still rang throughout his entire being, slowly engulfing him in a crippling numbness.

  
Eventually, he was unable to remain still any longer, drawn, like the ghost of a moth to the echo of a flame, towards the red and gold corpse that had once been Enjolras.

  
“Enjolras.” He found himself whispering the name as he reached for a bloodstained sleeve, and the word burned his throat with a harsh intensity that no alcohol could ever equal. Gently, with more grace and care than his blunt, trembling fingers would have suggested possible, he took Enjolras into his arms and sunk to the floor. The body still emitted a faint warmth as he cradled it, and he ran his hands through blonde curls, now sticky with blood, before burying his face into them. He could hear a harsh, agonised lament nearby that hollowed out his bones and refilled them with despair. It was a while before he realised that the noise was coming from him.

  
***

Grantaire had never thought himself destined for heaven, but now he knew hell. All he wanted was oblivion. Stumbling back to his previous resting place he found a half empty bottle of absinthe. It was the only thing that remained unchanged. The walls were blood spattered and the room was filled with the musty heat of death, but the bottle was still cool in his palm. He was almost loath to taint it with the blood on his hands. Almost.

***

The bottle was empty.

Grantaire was empty.

Enjolras was cold.

Grantaire had spent the hours since he had finished the bottle whispering apologies and and false promises into Enjolras’ hair. Sweet nothings.

He had promised the wrath of hell and fiery revolution, but any heat in Grantaire had escaped a few hours ago, through eight bullet holes. There was no longer a sun to orbit for warmth, and he knew that, when the body was eventually taken from him, he would simply find another bottle, followed by another and another, and continue until he was unable to think or feel anything. Until he rotted away in a lonely alley, leaving nothing for anyone to remember.

Grantaire looked down at the face that would haunt him until he took his last, alcohol tinged breath. The face, which had shifted in death to a serene tranquillity, free of the fury against injustice, although still equally as angelic. The face which he could have died next to, had he woken a few minutes earlier.

With a feral, bitter laugh he realised that he had been wrong. He was not yet completely cold, but all that burned in him now was shame.

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't this a fun journey of hope and joy! I've just set up a Tumblr which I'm going to put my writing on too, and take any requests/prompts, so [here you go](http://becominghistoric.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
